


Mohair Singles

by shell



Series: Merino Blend [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 07:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4092856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shell/pseuds/shell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Singles: A spinning term for a single strand of fiber twisted together. It is always plural.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mohair Singles

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story in a series, and I have tagged it with that in mind. See the end notes for more information.
> 
> Beta thanks to Lyrstzha, Reinventweather, and Belle Abroad, who patiently chatted with me both online and in person about how this whole series might work. Cheerleading from them and from my bestest cheerleader for so many years, dearest Dine.
> 
> Spoilers for Avengers: Age of Ultron.
> 
> Very minor editing done on 6/15/15.

  
  
SHIELD put Clint on six months enforced leave once psych had cleared him ("You're no longer a suicide risk, Agent Barton." "Fuck you, Dr. Sotol."). He'd never have to go back; Stark had hired him as an independent contractor. Clint had never officially accepted the job, but he had a paycheck and an SI email address anyway, and he wasn't dumb enough to walk away from what was clearly his only other option.  
  
Coulson would have had a good laugh at the idea of him working for Stark, but in the end, Clint liked to think he'd have approved. At least it left Clint a way to remain an Avenger, with the initiative that Coulson had built, that he'd made sure Clint was part of. He'd never understood why Coulson thought he, of all people, belonged on a team with Captain America, but he'd honor that inexplicable faith in whatever way he could, including staying on the team for as long as they'd have him.  
  
Stark also invited him to stay in the already-renovated--must be nice to be richer than God--and rechristened Avengers Tower, but Clint declined as politely as he could. Hey, at least he didn't tell Stark to fuck himself.  
  
He didn't use any of his aliases--if SHIELD wanted to find him, fine. If someone else wanted to find him, well, those were the breaks. He figured Dr. Sotol wouldn't be too happy about that (neither would Phil, but he pushed that thought away as quickly and hard as he could), but he didn't give a shit. He just ditched his pills (he was kind of interested to know what it would be like--he hadn't gone off them since he'd started at SHIELD all those years ago), packed a bag, and grabbed a cab to the airport. Six hours after they'd released him, Clint bugged out of the city with no idea when, or even if, he'd ever return--although he guessed he'd be stuck coming back for anything Avengers-related. Hopefully the universe was done with New York for a while.  
  
No one was more surprised than he was that he ended up in Iowa, but there he was, picking up a rental car at the Des Moines airport after a lengthy and uncomfortable day of traveling. Flying commercial sucked. He guessed he'd have to get used to it, but he missed piloting, especially the quinjets. They'd always been his favorite; he'd never forget the first time he flew one, or the proud look on Phil's face when he brought it in for a landing.  
  
Clint only made it as far as Ames before he stopped for the night. His sleep was fractured by familiar dreams of taking the helicarrier, of killing his friends, of Loki. He took his time the next morning, eating a big breakfast at a diner that he thought Coulson would have liked.  
  
It seemed like it should be getting easier, but thinking about Coulson, about _Phil,_ hurt more every day.  
  
He made it into Waverly around lunch time, grabbing a burger at the only restaurant in town, a Denny's. The house he'd lived in as a child was gone, the once rural neighborhood now taken over by a subdivision. Apparently those now existed in small town Iowa; who knew.  
  
The elementary school looked so much smaller he almost didn't recognize it. The library he didn't recognize because they'd built a new one. It looked inviting, surrounded by gardens that managed not to look barren despite the lateness of the year, but it wasn't the refuge he remembered. He wondered if Mrs. Brodt was still alive (if she remembered him, the scrawny kid with bruises who'd always borrowed as many books as he could carry), but he didn't stop to check.    
  
Instead, he drove out of town, staying away from the major roads, looking for...for solitude, maybe. He wandered south for a while, then west once he realized he was getting closer to Cedar Rapids. He was never sure what it was about the farm outside of Parkersburg that caught his attention, but he found himself stopping by the side of the road, looking at the "For Sale: 87 acres" sign. He made his way down the driveway to the house, a typical Iowa Victorian, and sat in his car trying to figure out if he wanted to get out until a woman approached and knocked on his window.  
  
"Can I help you?" she asked politely when he rolled it down. "Are you lost?"  
  
"No, ma'am," he said. "I was just driving around a little and I noticed the for sale sign."  
  
"You're interested in buying a farm?" she asked, looking at him skeptically.  
  
"I don't know--maybe?" he said. He'd never considered it before, but he had money. Not Stark money, but enough; it's not like he'd had a lot of expenses, all those years with SHIELD. He could buy a farm, if he wanted to. He got out of the car.  
  
"It's not the kind of thing you should do on a whim," she said. "No offense, but you don't exactly look like the farmer type. How did you end up in Parkersburg, anyway?"  
  
"I was born in Waverly," he said. "Haven't been back in...in a long damn time, but it seemed like the thing to do, so here I am."  
  
"You do know you're not actually in Waverly anymore, right?" she asked. She had pale skin, long dark hair, and dark eyes; she looked weatherworn, but the sadness he sensed felt familiar to him. She was dressed in a oversized, weather-beaten coat and jeans, with what looked like a hand-knit scarf and fingerless gloves. She didn't exactly strike him as the farmer type either.  
  
He shrugged. "Once I got there and saw it, I didn't feel much need to stick around, I guess."  
  
"So you thought you'd drive here instead?" she asked. "Waverley's not much, but it's got to be more interesting than this." She waved her hand to indicate the farm.  
  
"I dunno--are there any alpacas in Waverly?" he asked, looking over the fields, automatically cataloging what he could see. "Are those mohair goats? Hey, that scarf--is that from your fleece?" He wanted to grab it and feel the nap, but he knew his calluses would catch. Besides, it wasn't exactly polite to take the scarf off the neck of a stranger, even if it appeared to be a really gorgeous handspun alpaca.  
  
Clint had learned how to knit in the circus--the fortune teller, Stella, taught him. She'd also spun, although he'd never learned how. He hadn't picked up needles in years, but every once in a while he'd find his way into a yarn store and wander the crowded aisles, thinking about buying--about making a scarf for Natasha or a sweater for Phil--but never following through. He bought Natasha a scarf once, but he'd never dared buy the sweater he'd seen that would have been perfect for Phil, the one that was a cashmere blend, royal blue, knit by the owner of the shop with wool she'd spun and dyed herself.  
  
The woman stared at him for a moment, giving him time to push the fantasy of Phil in that sweater away again, as he had so many times before. "Wow," she said eventually. "They're called angora goats, not mohair. I think if you're going to ask me personal questions about my knitwear, I should at least know your name." She held out her hand with a smile. "I'm Laura Francis."  
  
"Francis?" Clint said. "Any relation to the Waverly Francises? I'm Clint, Clint Barton," he added, shaking her hand. "Clinton Francis Barton, actually. We might be distant relations." He didn't know why he was babbling away at her like this; he didn't know her.  
  
Laura Francis dropped her hand and looked away. "My husband was--his people came from Waverly."  
  
"Oh, jeez, I'm sorry," Clint said, because it was glaringly obvious that the "was" part of the statement was recent. "I didn't meant to--"  
  
"It's fine," she interrupted. "It's not like you could have known. You don't live here anymore."  
  
There was an awkward silence. Clint was just about to apologize again and get back into the car when Laura said, "Well, you know your fleece livestock and you might be related to my dead husband. The least I can do is give you a tour. I mean, if you want," she added hesitantly.  
  
Clint studied her face. She looked sad, but there was a determination that appealed to him. "Yeah, I'd like that, if you're sure it's okay," he said.  
  
"Give me a minute; I'll be right back," she said. He watched as she walked a little awkwardly back to the house, stuck her head in, presumably saying something to whoever was inside, and came back out. The wind blew her coat against her body, and he saw the reason for its size--she was pregnant. Some Hawkeye he made, missing something like that.  
  
Pregnant, maybe with another kid or two, and a recently dead husband. Shit, that sucked.  
  
Her gaze sharpened as she approached. "I don't need your pity."  
  
Clint held his hands up. "No pity, I promise. I just want to see the animals, get a look at their fleece. I can see at least one white alpaca out there--how many more do you have?"  
  
"Three," she said, shrugging diffidently. "We've got a couple each of red and black, and a few that are mixed. Fourteen head total, plus ten head of goats and four sheep, merinos. Three of those are pregnant, along with five of the alpacas. We--I haven't bred the goats yet this year."  
  
Clint let out a low whistle. "That's quite a set-up. I don't imagine there's a market for high-end fleece in Parkersburg--where do you sell it?"  
  
"There's a fiber collective in Cedar Rapids," she said. "We've got farmers all over the state--this farm is one of the biggest--and we can do both hand and automated carding, spinning, and dyeing. We do things carefully, so we don't ruin the wool. It's not enough to make you rich, but you can make a decent living if you're willing to put in the work."  
  
Clint nodded. Neither of them said anything as they walked up to the fence. The ground was flat, the leaves gone from the trees--Clint could see that most of the stock was outside, in fields separated by neat fences and segregated by species and sex. The animals themselves looked healthy and well-cared for, their fleece growing in thick and soft, and there were sturdy shelters with feeding and watering stations in every field.  
  
By the time they'd made it up to the goats, Clint had to squint to see them against the setting sun. The alpacas and sheep had ignored them, but the goats came over to say hello. Clint hopped over the fence to greet them, and they crowded around him like the ones at the petting zoo Carson's had had for a couple of years, except a lot fuzzier. "A lot of people don't realize how smart goats are," he said over his shoulder.  
  
She snorted. "Sometimes I wish they were a little dumber. That one's the ringleader," she said, pointing at the one investigating the hem of Clint's coat. "He's led three separate jailbreaks in the last year. My son named him Wilbur."  
  
"Wilbur, huh? I'll keep that in mind," he said absently, wondering how, exactly, he was going to make it all work.  
  
"You're good with them," Laura said. She was trying to hide it, but Clint could hear that she was surprised. "Did your family have 'em when you were a kid?"  
  
"Something like that," Clint said. The wind kicked up; he shoved his hands further in his pockets and wished he had a scarf of his own.  
  
"You want to come inside for some coffee?" Laura asked him. "I mean, if you're seriously contemplating buying this place, we should probably talk price." Her face betrayed her disbelief that he could really be interested. Not that Clint could blame her; he couldn't quite believe it himself.  
  
"Coffee would be great, thanks," Clint said, giving her his best attempt at a friendly smile. He wished Natasha were there; she was the next best thing to Phil when it came to keeping him from making stupid decisions. She'd kill him if he went ahead and bought the place without at least talking to her about it.  
  
Neither one of them said anything as they walked back to the house, but this time the silence felt almost comfortable.  
  
As they got closer, the back door of the house opened, and a boy came pelting towards them. "Slow down, Cooper!" Laura called out, and the boy obediently slowed to a walk. "Sorry," Laura said to Clint.  
  
"What for?" he asked, trying not to frown at her. "That you've got a kid?"  
  
"Kids, plural," she said, "not including this one." She pointed at her belly. "It might get a little loud in there; they're not used to strangers. You're the most exciting thing to happen to them since...." She winced and didn't finish, which at least was made less awkward by their meeting up with Cooper.  
  
"Hi," Cooper said, looking up at Clint. "Who are you?"  
  
"Be polite, Coop," Laura said. "This is Mr. Barton. Clint, this is my son, Cooper."  
  
"Nice to meet you, Cooper," Clint said, giving him a hand to shake.  
  
"Nice to meet you, too," Cooper said. "Is he staying for dinner?"  
  
Clint laughed. "No, buddy, just some coffee, if that's okay with you."  
  
"Oh shoot, coffee," Laura said, opening the door and ushering Clint and Cooper inside. "I'm sorry, but I'm not sure we have any. What about tea? Or hot cocoa?"  
  
"Hot cocoa would be perfect, thank you," Clint said. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had hot cocoa. Except that was a lie, because it was at the safe house in Maine that time. Phil had made it to go with his amazing grilled cheese sandwiches.  
  
Clint shook off the memory and looked around. There was a younger girl, maybe four or five, sitting at the kitchen table, working industriously in a coloring book. Another girl, this one in her teens, stared bug-eyed at Clint, the phone in her hand forgotten. She was the only non-beta in the room, and her nostrils flared just a bit when he walked in the room. Must not take long for the hormones to clear your system.  
  
"Clint, this is my niece, Charlie, and my daughter, Lila. Girls, this is Mr. Barton. He's interested in buying the farm."  
  
"But I want to stay!" Cooper said. "Why do we have to move?"  
  
"We've talked about this, son," Laura said. "Why don't you go out to the living room and watch some tv while I make the cocoa?"  
  
"You want to color with me?" Lila asked Clint. She had dark blond ringlets and big brown eyes, and she was just about the cutest thing he'd ever seen.  
  
"Sure, honey," he said, sitting down next to her. "What are you coloring?"  
  
"Horsies," she said solemnly. "See?"  
  
"I do see," he said. "They're purple."  
  
"Purple's my favorite," she said.  
  
"Mine too," he told her. She gave him a page to color, and they worked together until Laura called Cooper back and brought mugs full of cocoa to the table.  
  
His phone started playing "Star Spangled Man" before he'd taken more than a couple of sips. The number wasn't one he recognized. "Excuse me," he said, nodding to Laura, "I have to take this." He stood up and thumbed his phone, saying, "Just a sec" to give him time to get outside.  
  
"Rogers?" he asked once he was on the porch. He was pretty sure Stark had programmed the ringtone, but it made sense to check.  
  
"Barton, I know you're on leave, but we've got a mission, and I could really use you," Rogers said. "It'll just be you, me, and Romanoff, with Sitwell handling."  
  
"What's the mission?" Clint asked warily. He wasn't ready to come back to SHIELD, but if Rogers thought it was important, then he should probably listen. It's what Phil would have wanted, he thought with that sharp pain in his heart that never failed to surprise him.  
  
"We think a splinter group called Ten Rings has gotten a hold of a cache of Chitauri tech."  
  
Clint winced, remembering what Ten Rings had done to Stark; he wondered if Rogers knew that story yet. "I'm not gonna be able to get a flight back until tomorrow," Clint said. It was a ninety minute drive to Des Moines, and even though he could make it in a lot less, he really didn't want to risk the local LEOs pulling him over. "If you need to go now, I'm afraid I'll have to sit this one out."  
  
"No, that should be fine," Rogers said. "We're still planning the op. Just get to the Triskelion as soon as you can."  
  
"Will do," Clint said, relieved they weren't going through New York for this one. He still couldn't walk down the hallway where Phil's office was. Thank fuck Rogers hadn't taken Stark up on his offer to stay in the Tower either. "I'll text you the flight info once I've got it."  
  
"See you tomorrow, then," Rogers said.

 

* * *

 

"So, that was my work," he said when he came back inside. Both of the children were now in front of the television, leaving the kitchen empty save for Charlie and Laura. "I'm gonna have to get going soon--I have to fly to DC in the morning."  
  
"What do you do?" Charlie asked him. She'd been staring at him off and on the entire time. "Do you work for the government?"  
  
"Used to," he said. "I was with SHIELD, but now I consult for Stark Industries." It felt weird saying the name out loud, but everyone knew about SHIELD these days. It wasn't like he could tell them he was an Avenger.  
  
Laura went still. "Did you...were you in New York?" she asked.  
  
"I was," he said, clearing his throat and taking another sip of hot cocoa, looking away, at anything, at nothing.  
  
"I think I'll go check on the kids," Charlie said.  
  
Laura gave her a grateful smile. Once she was out of sight, Laura quietly told Clint, "I lost my husband in the Battle of New York."  
  
"Oh, God, I'm so sorry," he said, feeling sick.  
  
She shook her head. "No, it's okay. A lot more people would have lost their loved ones if it wasn't for SHIELD. I know everyone did their best."  
  
Clint's best hadn't been nearly good enough. Clint's best efforts had gotten dozens of his friends and colleagues killed, some by his own hand. He dropped his face into his hands and told himself to breathe, in and out, trying and failing to keep himself from thinking about Phil, about how Loki had used him and killed the best man he'd ever known. He tensed when he felt a hand on his shoulder, then forced himself to look up, even though he knew he had tears in his eyes.  
  
"Who did you lose?" Laura asked him, her voice so quiet he had to read her lips.  
  
Clint shook his head. "No one." At her skeptical look he said, "Well, someone. But he--he didn't know how I felt about him."  
  
"What was his name?" Laura asked.  
  
Clint swallowed. "Phil," he said, practically whispering. "His name was Phil."  
  
"I'm sorry for your loss, Clint," Laura said, squeezing his shoulder again.  
  
"Thanks," Clint said. He cleared his throat, wishing that he could tell this stranger, this kind woman who'd invited him into her home, all the things he'd kept from Dr. Sotol.  
  
"My husband's name was Will," she said. "He...when we first got together, he said I was as fine as the finest kid mohair, while he was more like a medium-weight sheep's wool. He was much more than that, not that he could ever see it, but the point is, we made a good blend. I needed his strength, his steadiness, his adaptability. Without him I'm like a single strand of mohair. Sometimes I can't believe I haven't broken yet."  
  
"Mohair's a pretty strong fiber, even singles," Clint said, attempting to smile, "but I get what you're saying."  
  
"Well, I can be as stubborn as a goat, that's for sure," Laura said. Her smile felt genuine to Clint, as genuine as everything she'd said.  
  
"Are you sure you want to sell?" he blurted out. "This place--you've built something wonderful here."  
  
Laura shook her head. "I've got two children under ten and a third on the way. I can't manage it, Clint, not on my own. Will always handled the stock."  
  
"What will you do?" Clint asked. It wasn't any of his business, not really, but he and Laura had built enough of a connection that he thought it was probably okay to ask. Especially if the answer helped him make a decision.  
  
"I've got family in Cedar Rapids," she said. "The fiber collective is there. It's grown enough to be incorporated, and they've asked me to run things."  
  
Clint nodded slowly. "Listen, I really do have to go. I know we never discussed price or anything, so I'll need to look over the details before I can make an offer." He took a crayon and wrote his email and cell phone number on the inside cover of the coloring book. "Send what you've got to me, and I'll look it over and get back to you, okay?"  
  
"Okay," she said. "I'll get it to you tomorrow."  
  
"Great," he said, feeling lighter than he had since...well. He bounced to his feet and offered her his hand. She ignored it in favor of giving him a hug.  
  
"You take care, Clint," she said.  
  
"You too," he said, allowing himself to accept and enjoy the simple comfort she was offering. "I'll, uh, I'll talk to you soon."

 

* * *

 

Rogers was the only one who commented on it, but Clint knew the team could see he was doing better, especially during their traditional post-avenging meal (this time it was Ethiopian food). The only one he actually talked to was Natasha, although JARVIS was helpful with specific options and background information.  
  
Natasha came with him when he went back to the farm to let Laura know what he was offering. When the inevitable cold feet struck first Laura, then Clint, she browbeat both of them into submission. At the end of it, Clint was in possession of the acreage and half the stock. He'd rent the house for a pittance, and he and Laura would split any profits. Her in-laws would help manage the place, especially when Clint was busy avenging.  
  
It turned out that Charlie had recognized him, so he didn't even have to tell them he was Hawkeye. It was a bit of a relief, them knowing.  
  
Will Francis' mother, who Clint figured could easily start her own television series a la the Pioneer Woman--hell, he'd watch it, especially after tasting her biscuits--pulled Clint aside the first night he was there. He followed her into the living room and sat, as directed, between her and her husband. "You wanted to speak to me, ma'am?" he asked.  
  
"We knew your mama, Clint," she said, her voice blunt but so very kind. "She was Bill's uncle Lester's kid. She was family, and so are you."  
  
Clint dropped his head between his hands and breathed for a moment before he could look up again, his eyes stinging. "She was your cousin?" he asked Bill.  
  
"I'm real sorry we never found you and your brother," Bill said, putting a hand on Clint's shoulder. "We were overseas; we didn't hear about the accident until we got back to the States."  
  
"We looked for you, Clint, you and Barney both," Debbie told him, her hand on his opposite shoulder, "but by the time we started looking, you'd disappeared."  
  
"We ran away and joined the circus," Clint said, wiping at his eyes. "I don't know what happened to Barney; I haven't seen him in years." He didn't elaborate.  
  
"Don't make no never mind," Debbie said. Her cheeks were damp, and Bill's eyes looked red. "If he ever shows up, he'll be welcome, too. You have a family here, and don't you forget it."  
  
"Thank you," Clint managed. "I won't."  
  
She pulled him into her arms. "I'm just grateful you've come back to us, son."  
  
By the end of the week, Clint had been claimed as cousin or nephew by a large number of adults, and Uncle Clint to an even larger number of children; he'd had to use his SHIELD training to remember all the names. It was a heady feeling, having a family. It was kind of terrifying how quickly it felt real, but it was so, so good. For the first time he could remember, Christmas was like he'd always dreamed it could be, right down to the bickering about the right way to baste a turkey.  
  
For the first time since New York, he was sleeping through the night on a regular basis.  
  
Natasha came for a visit in January, and Laura and the kids joined them, only to be trapped by a massive blizzard. Natasha ended up driving them through the storm to the nearest hospital when Laura went into labor four weeks early. Baby Nathaniel Clinton Francis was born in the backseat as they were pulling into the parking lot.

 

* * *

 

Clint had to present himself at the official ceremony honoring the Avengers on the first anniversary of the Battle of New York, but he left the next day. It was shearing time for the alpacas, there were new lambs to meet, and he needed to reinforce the fence--Wilbur had escaped again.

 

END

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Although the universe is A/B/O, this story doesn't really get into the dynamics. In this universe, alphas and omegas make up less than 50% of the population.
> 
> While Clint thinks Phil is dead at this point, the series as a whole is Clint/Phil.
> 
> You can find me either at [my fannish tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/shellumbo) or [my pro writing tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sbyzmcpherson). Or you can follow either on Twitter: @shellumbo or @sbyzmcpherson. Or both!


End file.
